On another long afternoon, the high sun sliding into evening, I prised up the carpet in a few corners. Just to see. The wood beneath was thick and solid-looking.
‘Oak,’ he announced, a few days later. ‘That’s what this floor’s made of.’ I froze, looking up from my magazine. There was some boring TV programme on about renovating houses, that Mum would have liked. That had to be why he was saying it. ‘Tap it.’ Silently I reached a hand down and knocked on the floor through the carpet. ‘It’s still pretty solid. It would be a shame to damage it.’
I didn’t say anything. I could feel my face heating up. Was he angry? Did he know? I couldn’t tell.
It’s my fault, I told myself. I’m doubting him and I just need to trust him. That’s what he always said.
I don’t know how far I would have gone, really. It’s embarrassing to say, but it never really occurred to me then. That I’d what – start digging, scraping the walls with a spoon? Wait by the door, a bit of broken plate in my hand? I couldn’t quite admit it, I suppose: my situation. And he was testing me, all the time, to see how far I’d go along with this. The point at which I’d start to resist – start to say no.
In the end, it didn’t really matter, because soon everything would change.
And yet, we’re still pretending, not admitting the full truth to each other, even now. Him? That this is OK, and that I could possibly be OK with this. And me – that I don’t realise what this is: that I can’t leave.
The thing is, I prefer this version of him, even if it’s fake. I don’t want to see the reality.
Because then I feel very afraid.
26
KATE
I haven’t moved, trying to decide what to do. I should tell the police.
But then I picture Nicholls at my kitchen table, explaining that calls had been made from the phone box near my house … I can’t risk being dismissed again, facing the polite suggestion that I’m not quite reliable in this area; that it’s all got a bit much. That even this, too, will have an explanation.
I can almost hear it: ‘So what you’re saying, Mrs Harlow, is that someone else knew Sophie planned to run away – but you can’t think of anyone else who’s missing. Well, now, that’s to be welcomed, surely? And if Sophie didn’t mention that in her diary … didn’t you say that you’d found it, and read it before? Perhaps it’s understandable. But, of course, we’re happy to take a look … If that will make you feel better.’
No, surely they won’t. Surely this they’ll take seriously. They have to.
But I’m not confident, not totally certain.
I need someone to back me up.
Charlotte picks up on the third ring.
‘I know it’s been a while. But could you come and see me? Dad too? I’ve some things I need to talk about with you.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I need your help. It’d be better if I could explain face to face.’
‘OK. I just need to sort the kids out, check if Phil’s around and – don’t worry, it’s fine, we’ll be there. When?’
‘How soon can you come?’
I feel relieved, just a little, when I hang up the phone. She’s good in a crisis. Maybe it’s time for me to share this with my family a little and let them help – I hope. She says she’ll speak to Dad and drive them both over first thing in the morning, then I’m going to explain everything that’s been happening, properly. I’ll make them understand, then we can all go to the police together.
Those emails are more than two years old. How will one more night make a difference? But even so, I’m uneasy. I don’t want to wait around.
Restless, I get up and go into the living room. Her postcards and note are still laid out on the glass table, untouched of course. That’s a perk of living alone, I suppose.
Then I feel a jolt of excitement.
If Sophie’s diary hid that email address, what could these messages be telling me?
I quickly go to fetch my jotter, feeling energised. I cracked the email; I got in there. There’s got to be something here: a message hidden. I can do this.
After half an hour, I’ve reached the familiar conclusion. These words are random. No secret emails or words or puzzles. There’s just nothing much to them.
Our address. A dutiful, bland message home, just enough to reassure us all that she’s still alive. Her writing unchanged, three kisses – xxx – always, that delicate little flower doodle by her looping signature.
I wonder when she’ll grow out of that; I smile a little, flick a finger at the cards to scatter them. Maybe she has already. It was daisy-like, a child’s idea of a flower, on the first card home, as usual, but then she mixed it up a little. That cheered me, when I noticed: was it a little sign that she was thawing towards me? Because they get more detailed, a little ruff of petals inside each one. It is supposed to be a rose, maybe?
Well, biology wasn’t really her subject. I wonder if she is still drawing as much as she used to.
My smile fades. Perhaps if I’d focused less on academics she’d be here to give me proper flowers, not this sad little bouquet. Unexpectedly, tears spring to my eyes, the writing on the cards blurring. I’m tired, I tell myself, it’s all been so much to take in. It’s OK. It will be OK, it has to be. I can’t get distracted.
So I’ll just have to try something else. What else do I know?
They still remember me at the grammar school. Maureen, the secretary, comes out to have a chat with me on their nubby orange sofas, bright against the beige walls. She’s the same, her pale blonde coif towering upwards like a Mr Whippy ice cream. The pupils haven’t started back yet, so the place is quiet. She tells me they’ve been hosting summer schools over the holidays. ‘More trouble than they’re worth sometimes, but needs must. And then we’re back into term time! And … how have you been?’ she enquires delicately.
I sense a bit of embarrassment about my unexpected appearance today. Sophie, however you look at it, has not been another one of the school’s sterling academic success stories.
As I hoped, it was Maureen who called the police about the diary and she doesn’t mind chatting. But it wasn’t her who was handed the diary, but one of the cleaners, before the building had opened.
‘We had the young artists in that week. Or was it the gymnastic summer school? Anyway, of course when I saw that it wasn’t just one of our, um, current pupils’ names written at the front, but Sophie Harlow’s, I thought I must let the police know, just in case it was relevant, you see. Well, you never know.’
‘You were quite right,’ I say. ‘So, this cleaner, would they be about so I could have a quick chat, perhaps?’
‘Oh. Well.’
‘Just to settle a few questions in my mind,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Nothing official.’ Whatever that means.
‘I’m not sure … they come before school hours. They always seem to send different people’ – she lowers her voice a little – ‘and I’m not sure how good their English is either. You could give the agency a ring …’ She looks doubtful: you could stick a pen in your eye, but why would you?
‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me the number …’
‘I’d be happy to,’ she says, decisive now. ‘Just a moment,’ and she clicks away in her heels. That done, it will be my cue to leave, I sense: the grieving mother ticked off the list; now to sort the stationery order.
Perhaps that’s unfair, she’s trying to be helpful. But I’m gloomy now, imagining what lies ahead as I try to get past the company switchboard, the bemusement then guardedness at the suggestion of something unsavoury.
But what did I expect? ‘Yes, the man who handed it in seemed very suspicious, perhaps he knows something; I took down all his details’?